TWIL: Poem




Wait until the sun has gone down and then turn out all the lights in the place where you live. Look, this is the place where you live. What the electricity brings is a showbiz version – an entertainment hub – somewhere edges are more distinct and so ambiguities are less succulent. If your house is an old house, or your flat slots itself into an old building, you’ll be returning it to the years of fires gone out and candles not lit. Everything was much scarier, off the mains, before there was a mains. We are wise, and can end uncertainty with a click. The great old human occupation of cosy evenings, I wonder whatever happened to… is almost negated. We are a lot less ignorant; we are a whole lot more snug, and smug. But what about when – like in this half-light now – you really don’t know whether that is a shadow, something hiding inside a shadow, your mind hiding something inside a shadow or a shadow hiding something inside your mind. This is a light-loving age, a glance at any estate agent’s window will display our avoidance of darks or deeps. In the last of the day’s light, you are able to see a truer fragility – the air is all cracks, as are we.


Hawthornden, 2018

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